


Invoking the Dread Wolf

by evelynwaaaaah



Series: Courting Halamshiral [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Solas Does Hair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelynwaaaaah/pseuds/evelynwaaaaah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine and Leliana attempt the impossible task of making the gang behave themselves in Orlais. And fail. Miserably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was no escaping anything in Halamshiral. The moment they'd entered Orlais, there had been an endless line of supplications and invitations, a constant barrage of shemlen nobles who wanted to see the Dalish Inquisitor trotted out in front of them so they could feel daring and risqué and go up in the estimation of their peers when they whipped out their droll stories about how quaint and articulate they'd found the little savage. Every day, Hal'lasean had pleaded with Josephine and Leliana to let her go see the common people -- the farmers and the townsfolk, the elves in the alienages, the refugees from the civil war. She had asked at every meeting and meal if there had been any news of the Dalish clans in the area and requested agents be sent to check on them. She'd had enough of masked nobles for twenty lifetimes and it was starting to show in her manner with them. And she hadn't even been to the ball yet.  
  
No. The ball was tonight.  
  
Which was why Josephine and Leliana had set her up in the biggest suite in the estate that was hosting them no matter how many times she complained that she had no use for four rooms and asked again what the other two were even supposed to be. She was Dalish, she pointed out, though they didn't need the reminder. If they gave her a blanket, she'd sleep in the courtyard quite happily. But her advisors had insisted. Because unlike her other trips into the wilds of Thedas, it seemed she was not actually in charge of this one. So they forced her into the master's suite, where the furnishings were so expensive she was terrified to touch anything, and in the end, it didn't matter what the original purposes for those extra rooms were because they were now completely dedicated to preparations for the ball. One room had been overtaken by tailors who were working tirelessly to fit them all perfectly with the matching military uniforms Josie and Leliana had designed together. The next had become the de facto War Room, although they could leave out none of their maps or reports even with a steady Inquisition guard in case of what, Hal wasn't sure -- "Orlesian spider spies?" -- but Leliana was insistent. The remaining offshoot from her bedroom -- the bedroom, as it happened, she had been expressly forbidden from using for any kind of Solas-related activities -- the sitting room, had been transformed into a make-shift classroom that Josephine had plastered with obsessive notes and sketches of nobles Hal was expected to memorize, complete with brain-numbing facts about how many hunting dogs they owned and what their sexual predilections were and which of their extended relatives was currently suffering from the gout. They had cleared the tables and chairs to the side to teach her the elaborate court etiquette it was essential was second nature and the long, soulless dances she would need to know by instinct so that she could concentrate on The Game while some old inbred pervert got his noble kicks by touching the Dalish Inquisitor's haunches in time with music.  
  
Hal was antsy. She was anxious. Her nerves twisted like a sack of angry snakes in her chest. Her brain was full to bursting, she hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in the last two days, and worst of all, she was so sexually frustrated that whenever Solas walked through her line of vision, she completely lost track of whatever new form of torture Josephine and Leliana had devised for her. And she was fairly certain at this point that he was doing it on purpose. He was toying with her, knowing that she needed to focus, and it was maddening. The last time, he'd traipsed by with an overtall stack of books and let one slip off the top so that he'd had to bend down to get it. Just thinking about it now made Hal'lasean bite her bottom lip as her eyes glazed over.  
  
"Oh, for-- Inquisitor!" Josephine scolded. "Please pay attention! This is very important!"  
  
"It's no use, Josie," sighed Dorian cheerfully. He had been helping to teach Hal to dance when the formal wear had been brought in for the final fitting, and now they were both holding out their arms in the middle of the sitting room while the tailors surveyed their work. "You can keep an elf from Solas, but you can't make her think."  
  
Hal stole across the little distance between them so she could punch Dorian firmly on the upper arm.  
  
" _Ow_!" he whined, rubbing at his wound. "Josephine, the Inquisitor hit me!"  
  
"Oh, will both of you shut up!" the ambassador cried. "And stand still! I will not say it again!"  
  
"Ooh," Dorian whispered loudly to Hal. "She's  _angry_."  
  
Josephine muttered something about herding cats and stepped away with the tailors to discuss their victims quietly. Hal'lasean let out a miserable huff, fidgeting impatiently with her arms still held out, and blew air upwards at the long tress of her hair that was tickling at her nose. "Tell me again why we have to wear uniforms?" she called to the ambassador's back.  
  
Josephine turned around with irritation written freely across her face. "Inquisitor, it is either this or a big, fluffy dress. Which would  _you_ prefer?"  
  
Hal's eyes widened in horror at the prospect. "...This is good."  
  
"Are you  _sure_?" mocked Josie. "You would look positively _fetching_ in something with a...hoop skirt. Don't you think, Leliana?"  
  
"Oh, yes," agreed the spymaster as she opened the door to the temporary War Room to reveal Cassandra, Cullen, Solas, and Varric undergoing similar forms of abuse. "And I have the  _dearest_  slippers in your size, Inquisitor, all embroidered with black seed pearls and a cunning little heel that will give you a most becoming  _lift._ " She accented her last word by grabbing two handfuls of Hal's backside and pulling upward. The Dalish elf squeaked her shock and darted away to hide behind Dorian, who was cackling delightedly. In the other room, Cullen sputtered and looked away, Cassandra tsked, and Varric enjoyed a good chuckle at both of them. Hal was gratified to see, at least, though, that Solas had finally gotten a taste of his own medicine.   
  
"Serah? Serah?" called the tailor immediately before the elf apostate, who was trying to get his attention to request he take off his outer jacket.  
  
"Solas is out right now," Varric informed him. "You'll have to come again later."  
  
"Hm?" asked Solas with a small, distracted smile as he finally pulled his attention from where Leliana's hands had been. When he noticed the others' knowing smirks, the tips of his ears turned faintly pink, but his expression was perfectly innocent..   
  
Varric lifted one brow to match his smug, sideways smile. "You two are going to be sharp as a wyvern's tooth as soon as we spend a night on the road."  
  
"I don't know what you mean," sniffed Solas. The tailor finally managed to get him out of his military coat so he could put on the finishing touches, and Solas took the opportunity to take up a position near the window directly in front of Hal. Where he leaned and clasped his hands behind his back, accenting the muscles of his chest beneath his silk undershirt. His lover glared at him and made a point of giving all of her focus to Josephine, which only made him smile.  
  
Cassandra finished moments later and sat down in her formal undershirt and slacks in the corner of the sitting room. "We have chosen dress uniforms because we wish to present a unified front for the Inquisition. It says we have power and discipline--"  
  
"And style!" added Leliana.   
  
The Seeker ignored her. "--and that we are a force to be reckoned with."  
  
Solas was not so impressed with the answers. "It is also a useful way to convince the Orlesians that our elven leader can walk on two legs and participate in 'civilized' society."  
  
Cassandra and Josephine were quick to make sounds of disapproval for that theory, but Hal offered Solas a quick, grateful smile. Leliana, at least, did not shy away from the accusation. "It is true that we have had to take Hal'lasean's Dalishness under advisement on occasion when considering how best to present her to the court. She will begin the night at a grave disadvantage in the eyes of the nobles and we must do our best to arrange the board in our favor. Even the tiniest accessory may tip your hand in The Game."  
  
"Speaking of arranging the board," called Cullen from the War Room. "Cassandra, if you don't mind, I wanted to go over the positions of our guard for tonight one more time."  
  
The Seeker let out a reluctant sigh and pushed back to her feet, trudging heavily into the other room to rest her hands on a table covered in maps of the palace. She and Cullen fell into discussion in low voices, so Varric escaped into the sitting room where the conversation was a little more lively.  
  
"I did not suggest it was unwise, Leliana," said Solas simply. "It is merely...unfortunate."  
  
"It's gurnshit," added Hal helpfully, and Josephine looked scandalized at the language. "What! It is."  
  
"It is also that," agreed Solas with the tiniest of smiles.  
  
As Hal's tailor finally let her slip out of her coat, Josephine was etching out a few last detailed notes on her list for the ball. With a final glance over it, she set it aside and murmured to an attendant, who disappeared into the hallway on an errand. Only then did she turn her attention back to the Inquisitor with a new earnestness in her expression. "It is unfair," she admitted. "But it is the hand we are dealt tonight. And we must make the best of it."  
  
"That's easy for you to say!" snapped Hal, crossing her arms under her chest and scowling at the very thought of all the ignorance and prejudice she'd been politely ignoring in the name of diplomacy with Orlais. "Solas, how many times in this estate alone have you been mistaken for the help?"  
  
"I have lost count."  
  
"This morning, I took a turn through the garden," Hal ranted, "and if you keep going through the arbor, you come to this lovely little fountain with a statue of the Silver Knight with his foot on the head of a slain elf! In the garden! And as I stood there staring at it, some spoiled, shemlen  _child_  shouted at me to get back to work! Apparently, I am a 'lazy rabbit'!" She was pacing through the room now, occasionally flexing her anchored hand in her agitation. "I know you mean well, Josie, but  _please_ don't tell me we have to make the best of it! The only thing  _you_ are making the best of is the inconvenient reality that you chose a Dalish elf for your Inquisitor!"  
  
There was an awkward silence in which everyone but Solas tried to look at the closest inanimate object rather than each other. Hal's flushed cheeks turned a darker pink as her temper cooled. "Josie," she sighed, preparing to apologize, but the ambassador shook her head.  
  
"No, you are right. Of course you are right. And I am sorry, Inquisitor, I truly am. I cannot know how difficult this must be for you."  
  
"Yes," Hal muttered, scuffing a bare foot on the well-polished floor. "But I know you're on my side. And you don't deserve to be spoken to like that. I'm just...tired. I'm tired and I want to go home. And since the only way to do that is to get through this ball..." She gave a resigned shrug. "This is your world. Tell me what to do and I'll do it." She and Josephine smiled sheepishly at each other.  
  
"Kiss!" demanded Dorian, who had draped himself on a settee against the wall once his coat was finished. "Kiiiiiss!" When Solas sent him a flat, unamused look, Dorian waved him away like a fly. "Don't look at me like that, Solas. I'm doing you a favor!" He sat up suddenly, all bright-eyed excitement. "Say, Josie, when do we get our masks!"  
  
Leliana and Josephine shared a meaningful look just as the assistant returned with a stool, a stand, and a mysterious box, trailed by two foppish Orlesians with outrageous hair. The objects were set up in the center of the room. "Inquisitor, if you would," requested the ambassador, gesturing for Hal to set herself on the stool. Since she promised she'd do as she was told, Hal perched on her appointed seat, dangling her feet a few inches off the ground. She watched warily as the box was set on the stand and unlocked to reveal a collection of brushes and clippers and colored powders and various other unnamable things that reminded Hal of the surgery at Skyhold. Or a torture dungeon. She lifted her gaze in apprehensive question to Josie, and while she wasn't looking, one of the Orlesians dragged a brush roughly through her long, loose hair.  
  
"Hey! That's connected to my head, you know!" Apparently the dandy didn't care. Hal just hoped that when he was done, she wouldn't look like Solas.  
  
"We...have decided we will not be wearing masks at the Winter Palace tonight," announced Josephine, much to Dorian's dismay. The Tevinter mage let out a sound of great disappointment, but the ambassador was looking worriedly for Hal's approval.  
  
"But we had them specially-- ow! Specially made," the Inquisitor observed in confusion.   
  
"And I was going to be a dragon!" Dorian whined. "I never got to be the dragon at balls in Minrathous!"  
  
"What were you instead?" wondered Varric.  
  
"An ass," quipped Solas.  
  
Dorian feigned shock. "Oh ho! Aren't we feeling saucy this evening, my apostatic comrade!"   
  
Josephine and Leliana watched it all crumble before them, watched Hal'lasean and her three closest companions bantering at each other with increasing speed. It was wonder the foursome ever got anything done on their long trips together. As soon as quiet, serious Solas made a joke, they knew they had lost. They'd need something drastic to regain control of the room.  
  
"'Balls in Minrathous'," Hal considered with a smirk that she pretended was all innocence, "Isn't that one of your smut titles, Varric?"

The Inquisitor, the Tevinter mage, and the dwarven author burst into uncontrollable giggles, folding over and pressing hands to their faces to cover their giddy delight, wiping tears of hilarity from the corners of their eyes. Solas pressed his lips together to hide his amusement but his eyes were alight. Even Cullen could be heard snickering helplessly over his maps.  
  
"Hey! Hey, Seeker!" called Varric. "I just came up with the next chapter for Swords & Shields!"  
  
"That is  _not_   _funny_!" Cassandra grouched.  
  
But Hal and her men thought it was because the giggles started all over again. In the War Room, there came the distant sound of someone getting hit upside the head.  
  
" _Hey_!"   
  
Apparently it was Cullen.  
  
The laughter continued. "'Balls in Minrathous'," Varric repeated with amused satisfaction. "Nice one, Hal."  
  
Dorian nodded his jovial approval at the dwarf. "I'd read it!"  
  
"I bet you would, Sparkler. I bet you would."  
  
Hal wasn't done. "It would most likely be your biography, anyway, Do--"  
  
"THAT! IS! IT!"

All eyes in the room turned as one to find Leliana, her hood pulled back from her hair, somehow towering in front of Hal'lasean's stool with her hands on her hips and a look on her face like a high dragon declaring its territory. They'd never seen her take up quite so much space or heard the whip crack so sharply in her voice. There were no more giggles. There was only silence.  
  
"The next person who interrupts Josephine or myself before tomorrow morning will not be attending the ball at all!" Hal began to raise a tentative hand. "No. You  _must_ go. But the rest of you! Stop encouraging her! The fate of all of Thedas hangs in the balance tonight, or have you forgotten the future from Redcliffe!" Not only did Hal drop her hand, but she folded it demurely in her lap with the other and lowered her eyes to frown at her knees. The snakes in her chest were vibrating with nervous energy. She had not forgotten the future at Redcliffe. She would never forget the horrors that had befallen her friends in her absence. The way they'd sacrificed themselves to give her the chance to change it. It had fed the Nightmare well for months. "Have I made myself clear!"  
  
Dorian and Varric murmured a cowed chorus of "yes, Sister Nightingale".  
  
Leliana stared them down individually for another tense few moments before she stepped aside and seemed to shrink back into a smaller, less assuming form. "As you were saying, Josie?"  
  
As Hal gritted her teeth in pain from the rough treatment of her stylists, Josephine began to speak again, "Yes, I-- er, what  _was_ I...? Oh, yes. After careful consideration, we have decided that the Inquisition will not be wearing the masks we had made." Hal raised her hand again, politely this time. "You're not in class, Inquisitor, you may speak."  
  
The Dalish elf reached behind her to momentarily stay the hand of the stylist with the brush so she could talk without interrupting herself with sounds of her pain. "I thought you said the entire purpose of the masks worn at Orlesian court was to make it easier to play The Game. That the less of my expression I showed, the better chance I had at playing successfully." There were more snakes now, dropping heavily into her stomach one by one and squirming there.   
  
"That is their main purpose," agreed Josephine, "though they are also decorative. But tonight we have decided to forego them for a list of reasons, not the least of which is that we want everyone to have their full range of vision. We must watch everyone and everything at all times if we are to uncover this plot against the Empress. It will also lull the court into a sense of security with us. Coming in without masks will say that we are open and without design. We have nothing to hide. The Orlesian nobles will assume that we are outsiders who do not know the proper rules of The Game. So when we play correctly, they will approve, which is good, or they will not know we are playing at all, which is better. It will show that we are above the intrigues of the court, that our reach is so wide and formidable that we need not worry about the squabblings of petty lordlings."   
  
When Leliana interrupted, it was with a sharp, unsettling smile. "It will drive them mad. They will fall all over themselves to gain our favor if they think we have no need for theirs."  
  
"And," added Josephine delicately, "it will grant our lovely Inquisitor great visibility. Without a mask, they will be drawn to her. They will speak of her whenever she passes."  
  
Solas' voice was an irritated growl. "Speak of her vallaslin, you mean."  
  
The sudden understanding made Hal almost want to cry. Orlais was doing a fine job of making her feel like an unsightly bit of rust on the Inquisition's otherwise impressive armor.  
  
"Her what?" asked Dorian before shooting an apologetic glance at Leliana. But she and Josephine were both looking gravely between Solas and Hal'lasean.   
  
"My tattoos." Even Hal was surprised at how defeated she sounded.  
  
"They will be your mask tonight," Josephine continued worriedly, rushing forward to explain before Hal got the wrong idea. But, of course, there was no right idea here. Not for an elf in a place that sought to strip her of her power and dignity.  
  
"You're not sending me in there as the Inquisitor," she realized out loud. "You're sending me in as an oddity. 'Come one, come all, see the Dalish savage! She has learned your language and can hold any conversation! See her dance your steps, wear your clothes, pretend to be one of you! Isn't she _charming_!'" That last word twisted on her lips until it sounded like Vivienne's typical brand of condescension, and the whole party recognized it for what it was. Inside Hal, the snakes roiled turbulently and when she couldn't stand it anymore, she escaped the clutches of the Orlesian with the brush and darted across the room to the nearest window, either to throw up or make a run for it. She wasn't sure which. Solas already had it opened for her when she got there and she shoved her head through it, leaning on the sill and sucking in fresh air like she might knock back strong drink. He placed a weighted hand on her back to calm her. Behind her, she could practically feel the way they were all exchanging concerned glances, wondering without comprehension about her strange elven sensitivities. Solas smoothed down her shoulders with both hands and she closed her eyes to collect herself.  
  
When he spoke, his voice was gentle but reasonable, as it always was when he needed her to learn a particularly difficult lesson. "Lethallan," and the part of Hal that instinctively knew to play The Game made note that he called her kin to remind her that he understood, "Your advisors are correct in this, but they will not be putting you on display without your permission: that is your choice alone. These nobles will speculate about your vallaslin and discuss you as they might a trained bear whether or not you wear a mask. By showing them your face, you claim that part of yourself before they can spoil it or take it from you. Do you see?" He hesitated and Hal opened her eyes to search his face. His intimate smile was supportive, but there was something stranger beyond it. "Tonight, your vallaslin will be your power."

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Hal'lasean," ventured Josephine hesitantly, and Hal braced herself for more unintended insults as she slowly turned around to face the ambassador. Her inked cheeks were flushed with her frustration and humiliation and she hated that she was so easily hurt by something she was sure she should be used to by now. "I am sorry. But your  _vallaslin_ ," she explained like tiptoeing through a battlefield, the word foreign and unwieldy in her mouth, "make you seem fierce. And the isolation of the Dalish lends you an air of mystery. If we dress you as an Orlesian, the Orlesians will see you as an impostor, a pretender who is lesser than they. So we want you to be...a version of yourself that we may use to our advantage."  
  
A long, exhausted sigh slipped from Hal's lips. "You want them to see me as intimidating and beyond their ken."  
  
Josephine's smile was apologetic, but pleased. "That is it exactly. But if you are too uncomfortable with this, then we have the masks ready in the other room."  
  
The snakes were finally settling inside Hal'lasean, in no small part because of Solas' continued presence beside her, his soothing palm warming her back. But they were still there, drowsy, sliding against each other as they stretched. "And what is my mask?" she asked warily, suddenly regretting telling Josephine to deal with it all those weeks ago. Josephine and Leliana hesitated and Hal groaned in realization, dragging her hands down her face. "A halla. It's a halla, isn't it." Solas scoffed a harsh laugh beside her at their appropriation of his pet name, but said nothing. When she felt prepared to accept her fate, she took in a deep breath and dropped her hands. "Vallaslin it is." She gave Dorian a shrug before he could complain. "Sorry, Dorian. You can be the Inquisition's official dragon when we get back to Skyhold."  
  
But Dorian didn't look too upset about the mask anymore. He smiled at her, but it was worried and pensive with hints of pity. Hal wondered with dark amusement if the Tevinter noble was trying to wrap his mind around racism.  
  
"It isn't only for you, Inquisitor," Leliana continued, gesturing for Hal to take her seat again. Hal did as she was told, but with a warning glare at the stylist. "You are each of you something unique and different from the other guests at the palace. A Tevinter mage, an elven apostate, a famous dwarven author, the Dalish Inquisitor, a former Ferelden Templar, the Left and Right Hands of Divine Justinia with ties to Orlais and Nevarra, the head of one of Antiva's oldest houses..." The redhead smiled genuinely, including the occupants of the two rooms with a sweeping gesture of her hands. "The Inquisition you have built around yourself, Hal, _is_ Thedas. Our faces will show that we are each very different -- different lives, different cultures, different looks -- and that we embrace those differences. Meanwhile, our dress uniforms will show we are one."  
  
The stylist had begun again and Hal was cringing dramatically with each graceless rip of the brush through her hair. She hoped Leliana didn't think it was at her speech. She quite liked that. "A unified--" She hissed in pain as the combs scratched over one of her ears not for the first time. "--Thedas under Inquisition banners."  
  
"With a beautiful Dalish warrior at our head, who will wear her differences proudly even in the face of certain prejudice." Varric mused on that for a moment before giving a nod of serious approval. "Not bad, ladies. Not bad."  
  
For the first time in days, Josephine looked genuinely pleased. She headed toward the stool to watch as the Orlesians jerked the last tangles out with the brush. "As she is not wearing a mask," she began instructing the two Orlesians apparently in charge of Hal's hair, "we will need her hair to make quite the statement. It must be back from her face. We cannot have it falling into her eyes all night or covering any of her tattoos. It will need height, for she is not very tall, nor will she be wearing heels." The ambassador glanced down regretfully at Hal before informing the stylists of her last demand. "We need her to look as elven to them as possible without letting her meet the Empress bare foot."

"She must look as though she has marched in from the battles of the Exalted Plains. A legend out of history," suggested Leliana.

Solas and Ha'lasean made respectively disgruntled and horrified sounds.  
  
"You could have worded it differently," Hal muttered with quiet fury. "And why does everyone think the Dalish don't wear shoes! We have shoes! We make them and wear them all the time!"  
  
"...You aren't wearing shoes now," Varric pointed out, and then held his hands up in surrender when Hal whipped around to snarl at him. "Well, you aren't!"  
  
"I didn't mean--" Josephine began, but instead of finishing, she threw up her hands and then pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Hal felt a little guilty about being the cause of the Antivan's headache. But only a little.  
  
The room was shrouded in silent tension except for the quiet exchange of ideas between the two stylists, who kept pointing at and picking up pieces of Hal's silvery locks. "Oh, yes," said one to the other. "Yes, and then braids, braids, braids," agreed the other to the one. The Inquisitor rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they stayed in their sockets. And then the parting and the combing and the teasing and the braiding began, which was awful enough when they were all talking to each other, but almost unbearable now that she was just stewing in regret and anger and anxiety.  
  
It was Leliana who finally disarmed the awkward quiet. "You know, I once had the most lovely pair of Dalish boots. It was during the Blight. They were of course not so pretty as the slippers in Orlais, but they were so light and very comfortable and I wore them every day for almost the entire time I travelled with the Wardens. They never wore out!"  
  
"Turn," came the disinterested order from one of the stylists, who didn't wait for Hal to figure out what he meant before forcibly angling her head for her. She was imagining grabbing the scissors and cutting large, uneven patches out of their hair in revenge when she noticed Solas. He had fallen into a grim, reticent mood some time before, which wasn't so unusual, but now he was staring at the Orlesians' hands weaving and twisting her hair with narrowed eyes and an intensity that she worried might set something on fire. Her brow wrinkled with confused concern and she was just about to ask him what was wrong when one of the stylists clicked his tongue and gave a hard jerk on a large portion of her hair. Hal'lasean's mouth dropped open in pain she could express only as a sharp breath.  
  
Suddenly Solas was pushing aggressively off the wall and stalking straight toward her. No, not toward her -- toward the stylists. And he was glowering righteously. "Enough. Enough! Give me the brush." He held out his hand expectantly and took a menacing step closer when the two stylists hesitated. "Give me. The brush. Now leave her. Leave her!" They scampered across the room as though he might turn them into toads. Hairless, unfashionable toads.  
  
"Solas, what are you doing?" groaned Josephine, whose headache was apparently getting worse. "We do not have time for this foolishness!"  
  
The apostate set his newly acquired brush roughly on the stand beside Hal and, much to her very evident surprise, slipped his fingers into her hair to begin undoing the Orlesians' work. He frequently had his hands in her hair, but usually that was in private.  
  
"Solas!" Josephine cried, and she sounded so distressed that Cassandra and Cullen peeked in from the other room.  
  
Everyone was staring at him like he was insane, except the Orlesian stylists, who turned indignantly on poor, beleaguered Josie. "This is absurd!" one cried. "We will not be spoken to this way by a common elf!" promised the other. Suddenly the ambassador's eyes were flashing fire. "Do you know how much demand there is for our services!" "This is an insult!" "It is an outrage!" "We will tell everyone! The Inquisition is--"  
  
"You mistake me quite if you think I will allow you to speak of my friends in such a manner," said Josephine with such a deadly calm that they shrank back from her as well. "You will take your things and you will get out." When they made no move to go, she took a menacing step forward. "Now."  
  
"What about our pay!" the first one -- or was it the other one? -- protested.  
  
Josie's quiet voice was murderously sweet: "Bill us."

It seemed the only thing the stylists were more concerned about than Solas' scary elven magic was their collective ego. They drew themselves up and angrily gathered their things, slamming the box and locking it with such carelessness that Hal wondered a little bitterly if they'd brought their cheapest tools for the Dalish savage. They had, after all, left the tainted brush behind. With the Inquisition watching them like hungry birds of prey, the stylists turned for the door.

"And if we find that you have been spreading tales about us," Leliana added from the corner, "you will find it most difficult to style noble hair without any fingers."  
  
That was more than enough for the Orlesians, who apparently decided that their egos were not quite so important as their lives and nearly got into a slap fight with each other to get out the door first.   
  
"The disrespect!" Josephine was telling the door that had closed behind them. "The audacity! How dare they!" And then she whirled on Solas, pointing a furious finger. "What do you think you are doing! Those were the two most fashionable stylists in Orlais! We had to reserve them months in advance!"  
  
He stood behind Hal's stool so she couldn't see his face as he spoke, but she knew the timber of Solas' voice when he would brook no argument and imagined the sharp glacial quality of his eyes as he rounded his agitation -- whatever it was about -- on their protesting ambassador. "If you wanted her to look as 'elven as possible', Lady Montilyet, you should have hired an elf or, barring that, someone who has some _little_ experience with elven hair! You cannot treat it as an obstacle to be conquered! It must be wooed and coaxed as iron bark." He ran his fingers through the beginning of the last remaining braid and then picked up the brush, moving it gently and lovingly through the length of her hair with such an expert hand that she let out a relaxed sigh.  
  
"And just where am I supposed to find a stylist who has experience with elven hair on such short notice!" Josie demanded. "We have only hours before the ball! And now we have no stylists! I cannot-- I--" She tossed her hands up again and turned her back to the room, giving little trembling shakes of her head and muttering a stream of rather impressive profanity.  
  
Solas' ministrations paused and Hal looked up to see his perfectly composed visage as he took in Josephine. "Ambassador," he explained with an edge of impatience to his voice. " _I_ will do it." As though this were obvious.

The room became a void of sound and activity. Hal'lasean, her advisors, her companions, the attendant...they were all staring incredulously at the very bald elf with the brush in his hand.  
  
"... _You_?" Cassandra blurted from the doorway. Her jaw hung open and she looked vaguely irate, as she always did when something surprised her.  
  
"That is what I said," replied Solas irritably.   
  
"But you're..." Varric waved a hand around his head in indication.   
  
When Solas lifted his brows at Varric, daring him to finish the sentence, Dorian oh-so-helpfully jumped in. "Severely underqualified!"  
  
Hal watched Solas' upper lip twitch slightly and his eyes spark, a hint of amusement playing atop a wave of annoyance at their doubt. He glanced down at her and she smiled up at him affectionately. "You are rather shiny."  
  
One corner of Solas' mouth quirked and she felt him simmer slightly behind her, so that when he faced their companions again, it was with a little less edge, a little more equanimity. "I was not  _always_ as I am now," he informed them. He was still affronted, but it was mild. He would humor them because she requested it of him.  
  
"Was it a combover?" wondered Varric, and Dorian made a sound of physical pain at the thought.  
  
The bald elf narrowed his eyes at the very hairy dwarf. "My lack of hair is a choice."  
  
Dorian was absolutely flabbergasted. " _That's_ a  _choice_?!"   
  
" _Yes_ ," sighed Solas. "It is a  _choice_. Contrary to what you may believe, not every decision is based on what is fashionable!"  
  
"Clearly!"  
  
Cullen was, judging by his expression, having a difficult time imagining Solas as anything but what he saw in front of him. "So you shave it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Varric turned immediately to Hal. "Is this true?" She gave him a sly, half-smile and a nodded affirmation. "Well, I'll be a nug's uncle."  
  
Solas dropped his gaze back down to Hal'lasean, who smirked mirthfully back at him. "I'm glad one of us is enjoying this," he told her wryly.  
  
Josephine and Leliana had been listening to all of this with frustration and growing anxiety. The ambassador had dropped into a chair by the door and was resting her forehead on two fingers as though that position could somehow stop her ever-increasing desire to send everyone to their rooms without dinner. Or else she wanted to murder them all with her bare hands. Hal couldn't be sure. "Be that as it may," she managed through gritted teeth, " _having_ hair does not  _necessarily_ make you  _qualified_ to  _do_ hair. Especially a  _woman_ ' _s_ hair." Her voice was climbing a few notes in pitch with each sentence, so that she practically squeaked out her point: " _Especially_ for the most  _important_   _ball in Thedas_!"

There was a pause and Solas let out another sigh, his cool gaze softening sympathetically. "In my youth," he admitted reluctantly, carefully avoiding looking at any of the men in the room, "I kept what you might say was a long, elaborate mane. I am told it was...luxurious." Dorian made a choking sound behind him, but he kept his focus forward and his shoulders squared. "Trust me," he said first to Josie, and then with his expression to Hal. He placed a kiss on her forehead that she closed her eyes to receive. The snakes inside her slide apart for a brief, glorious respite. "I must retrieve something from my room. I will return shortly."  
  
He strode purposefully from the room and the door swung shut behind him. No one could find anything to say.  
  
No one but Dorian.  
  
"Hal. Hal, if you're really my friend, if you care for me at all, you will make him grow it out."

**Author's Note:**

> First person to write some chapters of "Balls in Minrathous: The Dorian Pavus Story" by Varric Tethras gets my undying love.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this one isn't finished, but I got sucked into writing Elvhenan Arises and I can't stop, won't stop. It's swallowing me whole. I'll come back to this one, I promise.


End file.
